English
Elegy for the Lord of Martyrs (Imam Husayn)
The whole world weeps and mourns, but for whom?
The age has dressed in black, in grief for whom?
Why is heaven's tent stained dark like indigo?
Whose cruelty has torn the horizon's collar?
What new sorrow has shattered the sun's face?
Whose suffering left these scars upon the moon?
Grief has blackened the very walls and doors of time.
Whose mourning made this dim house of sorrow?
This dark velvet throne upon the turning sky,
left empty of its king, whose seat is it?
They poured the blood of dawn across time's face.
Whose thorn has wounded the flowers of this garden?
No blood remains in the body, yet still it tries to weep.
Whose sobbing chokes within this throat of breath?
The heart gives out from hearing such a lament.
Whose voice is this, that pierces straight into the soul's vein?
Hearts are seared, and inner selves laid waste.
Whose stricken heart breathes out this painful sigh?
A whole world lays down its life as offering.
The claim still stands, but whose blood is the price?
From end to end the sky is full of mourning's smoke.
Tell me at last: for whom is all of this?
It seems this grief belongs to every stricken heart,
meaning the mourning of the King of Karbala's martyrs.
That horseman of the field of Karbala: Husayn.
The newly arrived guest of the plain of anguish: Husayn.
The spring bouquet of leadership in faith's garden,
that tenderly raised palm of God's grace: Husayn.
The one cradled in Gabriel's embrace,
that piece of Mustafa's heart and soul: Husayn.
The light of the eyes of Zahra's and Ali's hearts,
in short, the brother of Hasan al-Mujtaba: Husayn.
Fallen among those who are strangers to the faith,
without comfort, without kin, without a friend: Husayn.
Modesty itself, wounded by shameless foes;
faithfulness itself, slain by the blade of treachery: Husayn.
Invited with eager promises, then cast down by cruelty,
caught in the hands of the treacherous people of Kufa: Husayn.
At the hands of vile Kufans and base Syrians,
in Karbala made the target of disaster's arrow: Husayn.
His heart pierced by a hundred thorns of enemies' cruelty,
never feeling the breeze of loyalty from friends: Husayn.
Like a tulip and rose tossed in the wind,
struggling, drowning in his own blood: Husayn.
Here the enemy's cruelty, there the friend's loyalty,
yet left with nothing from either, O Husayn.
From this pain, the world's delight fell into sleep,
and this dust rose to dim the mirror of the sun.
Spend it all on mourning the King of the age, it is still too little,
for every tear is owed to the children of Adam.
It is only fitting that this overturned arch of sky
should blacken like the eyebrows of the beautiful, for it is the crescent of Muharram.
Yes, the new moon's body is bent under the load of grief;
even heaven's back is curved with this sorrow.
Alas for the weeping stirred by this tear-burning pain:
every eye runs dry, yet the Tigris is still a sea.
Muharram has come and joy is forbidden;
again it is the start of disaster, again the start of grief.
Again it is the moment when, from the people's such uproar,
they almost believe the Resurrection is happening now.
This grief has so darkened the sun's own heart
that the dawn rising over the horizon is now an evening of mourning.
As long as time turns, every heart pours out sigh after sigh;
as long as night circles, every eye runs with endless tears.
What weight has the earth before this surging wave of weeping?
This flood does its dealing with the highest heaven itself.
It raised a resurrection over dead hearts in the field of the soul,
this choked lament that sounds like the trumpet of Judgment Day.
When the people of heart display the wares of their sorrow,
this is the one pain that stands ahead of every other pain.
Alas, the days of laughter and joy are over;
nothing remains for people but the bitter water of tears.
Each year the blood of Karbala's martyrs is fresh again,
rising like tulips from the desert of Karbala.
Still fresher is what flows from our eyes:
the blood swallowed by the orphans of Karbala.
It settled down and lodged in all our hearts,
the dust that rose on the battlefield of Karbala.
Who was this gardener who plucked, before they could be watered,
so many blossomed flowers from the garden of Karbala?
The rosebush, instead of roses, bears a bloodstained heart for fruit;
the soil of Karbala's garden has drunk its fill of blood.
Alas for the moment when, with no one, no friend, no companion,
the Rustam, the hero of Karbala, was left utterly alone.
That flower, the very flower of the Prophet's bosom,
surrendered his cloak into the grip of the desert thorns of Karbala.
The army closed in like a ring, more numerous than snakes and ants,
circling like a signet round the Solomon of Karbala.
The sharp blade drank blood, to drive in a single breath
a draught of water down the parched throat of the king of Karbala.
Water that demons and beasts all drink down like milk,
the family of the Prophet must drink from the edge of the sword.
The ship of endurance was wrecked by the waves of weeping,
and the house of every heart was blackened by the smoke of sighs.
While there was a drop of blood in the liver, it was given over to weeping;
while there was a breath within, it was spent on sighing.
From this grief, since the princes' faces reddened with blood,
one must wear black, for fortune itself has turned black.
It was not only Adam who was touched by sorrow's dust;
this grief became a film clouding the mirror of sun and moon.
To carry the message of this pain to East and West,
the courier of tears set out on every road.
The days grew dark when Muharram arrived;
this month became the brand on the brow of every year and month.
The sun claimed it too had been struck by mourning,
and the broken pallor on its bright face bore witness to it.
Whoever wept this month from the burning of his heart,
Gabriel stood surety that he was cleansed of sin.
Tomorrow, before the Prophet, it will bloom like a flower,
the face that during these ten days grew pale as straw.
Strive to weep as much as you can, for it is fitting;
the tearful eye is the excuse for a lifetime of sin.
Cry out for the moment when the king, the shelter of faith,
in his battle armor blazing like the lightning of a sigh,
came out of the tent and bid farewell to his household,
with a host of pain and longing, a host of tears and sighs.
Without his care, the family of the household of the faith,
like the sacred law in our age, was left without refuge.
From the smoke of the household's sighs the tents turned black,
like the houses of the bereaved, draped in black.
One sits in the mud of his own tears, struck down by grief;
another has fallen to the dust of the road in sheer longing.
From this cruelty one man's tears have flooded past the fish below;
from this sorrow another's sigh has risen all the way to the moon.
On this side the king's face is reddened with heart's blood;
on that side the black-deeded enemy is left disgraced and shamed.
One eye toward the enemy, one eye toward those he loves;
one foot set on the road, one foot still in the tent.
His honor pulls a corner of his mind toward driving off the foe;
while bewilderment grips his gaze and holds it back here.
The thought of battle turns his stirrup to fire;
the will to go makes the very roots of his being tremble like quicksilver.
His foot in the stirrup of longing, his hand reaching for the reins;
his body torn between the women's tents and the battlefield, his heart drawn to the fight.
The lady of the household seized the hem of the king of faith
and cried out: O honored king,
Why do you go, slipping away from us like this?
Why do you leave us so alone and go?
See what days have come upon us in our grief for you;
O comforter, companion of our nights, why do you go?
The children of Fatima are all helpless and forlorn;
O light of Zahra's eyes, why do you go?
We are bound at every moment by a hundred sorrows and pains;
you slip away unseen and depart before our eyes, why do you go?
You know we are without anyone, strangers, and powerless;
you cast us down like this in the wilderness, why do you go?
You are the captain of the ship of the Prophet's law;
you let the ship of faith drift out to sea, why do you go?
Against enemies beyond all counting,
like the sun, you go out, one man, utterly alone.
A hundred souls and hearts are scorched in the fire of parting;
O balm of wounded hearts, why do you go?
O keepsake of a whole garden of roses, in this garden
why do you leave the longing nightingales and go?
We have fallen into the hands of cruel, vicious enemies,
helpless and alone, why do you go?
No protector, no one to share our grief, no friend, no companion;
we are left wretched, for God's sake, why do you go?
In that moment the rosebush of the Prophet's family bloomed in sorrow;
the king turned to his children and said:
O people of my house, when you pass toward Yathrib,
first go to the grave of the best of mankind.
Let this be my whole message at that shrine:
remembering me, soak this earth with your weeping.
Then go, grieving, to the grave of Zahra;
there pour a handful of dust over your heads for me.
Then go to the grave of my brother;
take that dust like kohl and line your eyes with it for my sake.
Then with sighs and heart-rending, soul-burning cries,
give my loved ones word of what befell me.
Tell them: that stranger in the land of cruelty, Husayn,
has been killed; now think of what else can be done.
O friends, when you speak the name of my parched lips,
remembering me, wet your eyes with the blood of your hearts.
Whenever you recall my lips, red as carnelian,
fill the hem of your garment with the pearls of your tears.
Each year, when the crescent of Muharram appears,
sit down in mourning for me and begin to weep.
Whatever grief comes, until the Day of Judgment,
in bearing it, look to what happened to me.
In the long, drawn-out agony of my grief, whatever sorrow falls, make it brief.
From the wailing that rose then in the women's tents, the hearts of the angels were all wounded with pain.
After he bid farewell, that pride of the noble house, he turned toward the field of battle.
The longing for martyrdom rushed into his heart: with desire amid the struggle, with patience in the fight.
Before his eyes, the thought of meeting God; in his mind, the founding of an eternal kingdom.
On one side, longing for his father and grandfather drew him on; on the other, concern for his family held back his robe.
A sword like lightning in his hand, alone like the sun, he turned, blade flashing, toward that army of error.
Suddenly, from the tents of the women, beyond all measure, the sound of weeping and crying reached his ears.
The King of faith turned back and asked what was the matter; they said all at once that a certain small child
from lack of water lay like a fish on the dust, and from the weakness of thirst had become like a thin crescent moon.
The King wept, took the child from the nurse, and then carried it before that cruel people.
He said: People of evil deeds, this innocent child has grown thin as a hair from thirst, frail as a reed from exhaustion.
The water you have forbidden me for no reason, allow just one drop of it to this innocent one.
Then a base man, from the spring of his blood-dripping arrowhead, poured water into the child's thirsty throat, without a doubt.
From that fire of oppression the age set ablaze, the hearts of all people burned, both hidden and plain.
A cry rose among the angels of the seven heavens; the jinn and the fairies all wept bitterly.
The restless water grew heavy and still as a mountain; the steadfast earth rose up light as dust.
From this cruelty, smoke coiled in the heart of the fire; the wind threw dust on its head, the water lay humbled in the dirt.
Dust rose to carry this tale to the highest throne; the wind rose to carry this grief to every land.
From the flood of weeping the house of the heavens was ruined; from the sting of lament the breast of the angels was torn.
From the angels' reproach the globe of the earth burned in the fire of indignation, like a seed of wild rue thrown on flames.
The pure angels turned to blood with this grief; what can I say of how those aching hearts became?
Once more, when that life-giving, heart-stealing master came intending to charge that boundless host,
he put on the armor of Ahmad the Chosen, and girded the sword of Haydar the Lion at his waist.
On his body, a coat of mail as a keepsake from Ja'far the Winged; on his head, a turban that bore the mark of Hasan the Chosen.
A sword like swift lightning, a steed nimble as flame, water held in his hand and fire beneath his thigh.
Water the color of a leaping, tongued flame, yet in the moment of charging the foe, it had no tongue to spare.
He became water and swept away that handful of thorns and chaff; he became fire and fell upon that crowd of cowards.
Like flame, the burning of his breast thrust a tongue outward, and from thirst he held the ruby of his lip in his mouth.
If they have cut off water from those ruby lips, what of it? How could thirst ever harm a ruby!
His soul writhed in the burning fever of thirst; blood, like water, ran from the root of every hair.
He fell to the ground like a ray of sunlight, scattered and helpless as his own loosened hair.
Why did the high heavens not collapse in that moment? Why did this crescent boat not sink in blood?
When the prince fell from his saddle onto the dust, the sun of the sky fell from heaven to earth.
In the desert, the thorn of a spear broke the secret heart; in the sea of mystery, a knotted wave creased the brow.
The cry of the camel reached the seventh heaven; the wail of grief fell into the eighth.
Fortune turned, and all affairs reversed: earth rose to the sky and the sky fell to earth.
Every pillar of the sacred law was ruined; many breaches fell into the house of clear faith.
The ship of faith nearly went to wreck, so violently did turmoil strike the sea of religion.
The fierce flood of doubt so set its head upon the heart that, from the turmoil, a breach fell in the palace of certainty.
A day of resurrection appeared before the family when their eyes fell upon the king of faith's steed.
From the eye of the stirrup, blood of sorrow trickled; in the curls of the reins, fold fell upon fold.
The uproar of universal weeping rose so high that, from the turmoil, the highest throne began to tremble.
In the plain of Karbala, from the drops of tears, as far as the eye could reach, all fell on gems and jewels of red.
Each member of the Prophet's family, with the tongue of their state, began to sing the meaning of these words:
You left, and set a brand of grief upon our hearts; you left us to the dark day of mourning.
You went joyfully, while arrows of stars rained on us; you left no heart at peace, and a hundred sorrows behind.
You withdrew from year and month like the Night of Power into a veil, and left this darkness for the month of Muharram.
You set like the sun from this dark dust pit, and left a black day for the people of the world.
You went to your father and your honored grandfather, and left us strangers, friendless, and full of grief.
You reached the shore, free of the old sea of sorrow, and left us drowning in endless tears.
Jinn and angels weep and burn for your absence; you left a brand not only on Adam's heart.
You left, and made the days of your orphans dark and tangled as your own hair.
You left us strangers and humbled in the hands of the enemy's army, with no comforter, companion, or friend.
Whatever the cruelty, your family found comfort in you; you laid a soothing balm on every wound.
The Prophet's spirit wept blood from this grief; how can I tell how bitterly Fatimah's soul wept?
Alas for the moment when Fatimah, daughter of the Chosen One, mother of Husayn and Hasan, mistress of all women,
with collar torn to shreds and soul rent to pieces, in the veil of grief and the garb of mourning,
comes to the field of resurrection with a hundred cries, holding in her palm the broken tooth of the Chosen Prophet,
her head crowned like a tulip, surging with blood, holding the turban of Ali, stained red with blood.
On one shoulder he carries the green robe of Hasan,
and on the other the blood-red garment of the king of Karbala.
He comes in such terror that the heavens are shaken,
he comes in such an uproar that the ranks of the prophets ache with grief.
He cries out in anguish at this monstrous deed,
he raises his voice against this crime and all that happened.
He enters the court of the divine throne seeking justice,
with angels, jinn, and spirits as witnesses to his case.
He lays his honest hand on the pillar of the throne,
kneeling before the tribunal of the Judge who repays all deeds.
Gabriel is thrown into turmoil by the horror of this act,
and the Prophet himself trembles at so vile a deed.
On that day, what will the punishment for this ugly deed be?
On the day of resurrection, what harvest will this sowing yield?